


They

by hakura0



Category: Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood/Arsenal (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 00:47:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7913884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakura0/pseuds/hakura0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Failure.  </p><p>The word means something different, probably. Probably it shouldn't stick for as long as it has. </p><p>Probably it shouldn't sting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They

Failure. 

The word means something different, probably. Probably it shouldn't stick for as long as it has. 

Probably it shouldn't sting.

They both fell into different darknesses. Both dropped from on high - the ones who couldn't make it, couldn't handle it.

It's a blood disease though, /helping/. Something terminal, something chronic.

It's revenge that's half a plea, blood and you-are-wrong, and why-wasn't-my-death-enough, this-city-needs-more-and-it-will-have-it-when-you're-dead. 

It's getting yanked out of the darkness and back into almost-obscurity and helping because you can, it's whether-they-know-or-not, whether-they-want-it-or-not and everything crashing back on your head.

There's a line they're straddling somewhere, and the landscape is more white than black, but all that translates to is gray. To you, you are safe and you, fuck you, you won't hurt anyone again.

They gravitate, like-and-like, they talk, like they fight, in circles - at the other's back. Hurt a thing that is sometimes intentional and sometimes carelessness.

They stock bandages and floss and painkillers, bullets and arrows and curses in at least five languages.

They are building back up and wearing themselves down all at once. Crashing into and away from walls, limits, dumpsters - each other. Falling into close familiar sprawls together and staring at the ceiling as the sun rises outside the window.

Most of this isn't new. 'Failure' isn't. 'They' is.

They is sharp edges and loose strings, a looping, knotted mess of the parts of them that have unraveled and caught together - a creature which, somehow, keeps them from coming further apart.

There are threats and nightmares etched onto and underneath of their skin, ignored warnings kept mostly to themselves. Regrets and promises - ink and scars and the memory of fractured and broken bones.

They grins a little wider, settles more ease into their touch, laughs louder without old scars settling in and gentles the tone of their obscenities.

There is more to life than bad coffee and bruises. Than scrubbing bloodstains out of clothing with bleach-raw hands.

There is I'm-helping-you-whether-you-like-it-or-not -- a place where they finally fucking fit.


End file.
